


The Painted Malfoy

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Bottom Draco, M/M, Older Harry, Voyeurism, portrait!Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:52:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry wakes one night to a voice he hasn’t heard in years. Finding Malfoy in one of his portraits was a shock; even more shocking was when Malfoy refused to leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Painted Malfoy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitty_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitty_fic/gifts).



> **Prompt:** [PROMPT # 93](http://bottom-draco.livejournal.com/1460246.html?thread=7922454#t7922454) submitted by kitty_fic
> 
>  **Contains:** *Age difference Harry is 35 and Draco is 19 when they have sex. Harry talks about how he likes rough sex. Harry has sex with someone who isn’t Draco when they aren’t together yet and Draco watches.*

He hears _his_ voice in the night. A deep, angry tone Harry hasn’t heard in some time. Not since youth, certainly--so long now it almost seems a lifetime ago. The sound rouses him from slumber, and he sits up in the darkness of his chamber, glancing around with confusion. He half believes he’s imagined it until the snotty hiss comes again--sharp and crisp from his bedside table. 

“Potter!” 

Harry glares down at the small portrait--the one some drunken sod Hermione swears he’s related to usually occupies--to find Malfoy shoving the poor bloke out of the frame as he glares up at where Harry sits, dumbfounded. 

“Malfoy?” He’s half-convinced he’s still dreaming, until he pinches the back of his hand and finds that this is definitely happening. “How the hell did you get into my portrait?” 

“Funny story, that--let’s talk about it over tea, shall we?” The tone Malfoy uses is severe, full of sarcasm and simmering rage. 

“Are you hurt?” Harry’s Head Auror mentality taking the reins of reason. 

Malfoy, however, ignores the question, and with a very incredulous expression exclaims, “Fucking hell, Potter, you’re so old!” 

Harry takes immediate offence, as he always has when it comes to Malfoy’s scathing comments. “Thanks ever so much for pointing that out.” Then he notices how young Malfoy appears--he can’t be older than nineteen, and Harry startles. “How long have you been stuck in there, Malfoy?” 

“Time never changes here, so I couldn’t say. How old are we now, Potter?” 

“Thirty-four,” Harry admits and winces when he watches Malfoy slump against the painted sofa--his hands over his face as he screams. 

“That bastard!” Then he lets out a sob, “I’ve been here for fifteen years.” 

#  
That’s how Harry’s life with Malfoy’s constant presence begins.

It’s been four months, and Harry’s becoming used to the mocking, almost shrill tone Draco uses with him when he’s in a snit. Which is a continual state for Malfoy. 

“I see you’re eating that horrid food again today.” Since Malfoy’s new-found talent for gliding from portrait to portrait Harry has had to deal with him following him all over the house. Blighter even follows Harry to the bathroom. Because _of course_ there’s a portrait stuck to the wall of the bathroom at Number Twelve. Probably another prank of Sirius’s left behind. 

Now, they’re in the living room. Harry’s got the telly on to watch sport, and Malfoy--as usual--is complaining about Harry’s takeaway. “You’re going to get fatter, Potter--you’re already thick. You were never that broad at school.” 

“I was underfed during school,” Harry comments--only half paying attention. “And I’m not fat--I am broad because of muscle.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, Potter,” is Malfoy’s immediate reply. Sometimes, Harry thinks Malfoy sits at home all day and dreams up argumentative scenarios; prepares for the tongue lashing he assaults Harry with daily. 

He doesn’t dignify Malfoy with a response--instead Harry goes back to his lager, cheap Chinese takeaway, and footy match. 

When he’s fallen asleep sitting up it is Malfoy’s shrill yell that wakes him. 

“Get yourself to bed, Potter, before you catch your death!” Harry grunts in response, and takes himself up the stairs; Malfoy following him from portrait to portrait on the journey. “Mind the walls, you’ll get them greasy,” his unwanted guest says. Then when they are back in the room Malfoy yells at Harry to go wash up before he falls into bed. “You’re heathen--clean yourself up before you fall to sleep!” 

“All right, Mum,” Harry snaps, but does as told. He even changes into his pajamas--something Malfoy is always after him about. He’s still as bossy as he was in school. The only difference is Harry doesn’t mind listening to his demands so much now; it’s out of pity. He doesn’t know how to help Malfoy, so he gives what little control he can to give Malfoy a sense of normalcy. 

“Potter,” Malfoy says at him--right as Harry’s almost in the full hold of sleep, and he jerks a little, grunting out an acknowledgement. “Good night,” Malfoy whispers--timid and almost vulnerable, shocking Harry enough to look over--in the dark--at the bedside table portrait. He cannot see Malfoy, not in the dark, and damn sure not without his glasses, but Harry imagines him there. Sees him in his mind as curled in on himself and unsure. It makes him a little less annoyed with Malfoy when he falls into sleep. 

# 

Teddy comes round once a week to have dinner, and Malfoy is always noticeably out of sight during these evenings. Not that Teddy knows--Harry hasn’t told anyone about Malfoy. He’s not sure how to broach the subject that he’s found Draco Malfoy at long last. Hell, he’s not even sure he’s actually _found_ Malfoy. All he knows for sure is that Malfoy--the Malfoy Harry saw for the last time at his trial--is the same scared kid Harry remembers from when they were nineteen. 

“Uncle Harry, did you hear me,” Teddy’s voice breaks through Harry’s silent thoughts and he glances up to see Teddy staring at him with a bemused expression. 

“Sorry, what was that?” 

Teddy rolls his bright blue eyes at Harry, ever the snotty brat--even at eighteen--and says, “I said I’ve found you a real nice chap. Met him when Vic pulled me along to one of her posh parties.” 

Harry groans, “I told you I’m done with dating.” 

He snorts, dropping his fork down on the plate with a clatter, “Then don’t date him--fuck him, have a bit of fun once in a while! Uncle Ron says you could do with a bit of the ol’ in an out. Says you’re a right fucking terror at work.” 

“I’m demoting him,” Harry threatens, but they both know he won’t. In truth, Harry knows he could do with a shag. A good long shag that’s full of teeth and brutality. And that’s the problem, isn’t it, he doesn’t know too many blokes who want Harry to leave his brand in their skin. Harry’s all right with that--he’s got no issue with being alone. Harry knows he’s fucked up in the head, and that he’s not easily handled. He definitely isn’t boyfriend material--he’s too possessive, too angry, too much to deal with some days. 

“You know,” Teddy starts after a long silence, “I think Garrett is just what you need.” There’s something _knowing_ in Teddy’s gaze that makes Harry uncomfortable. Teddy’s his kid for all intents and purposes, and his kid has no business knowing what sort of things Harry gets up to in the bedroom. 

“Fine,” Harry grumbles--after he takes note of the intense way Teddy watches him; a sure sign Teddy’s not going to back off until Harry agrees, “If you’ll drop it I’ll meet with him.” 

# 

The only thing Harry likes about Garrett is the way he looks. He’s tall, slim, and blond with sharp features and a posh manner of speaking. He’s Harry’s type, physically. Personality wise he’s a bore. Laughs too much at the things Harry says, and pretends to be too interested in everything. Harry’s damn near certain he’s a high priced rent boy Teddy and Ron bought for him. 

He confirms that suspicion when Garrett starts to undress. “You know I’m not gentle with the men I take to bed,” Harry comments and Garrett lets out his first real laugh. 

“It’s okay, Harry, I’m a done deal.” He drops to his knees, hands going to Harry’s zip, and Harry pulls at the strands of his hair. Harsh as he yanks Garrett’s head back so he can stare down into his watery blue eyes. 

“I mean it. I leave bruises, deep ones,” Harry’s voice is a raspy growl of a sound.

“Hazards of the job, luv, now--come get your money’s worth.” 

So Harry does. He winds up pinning Garrett against the wall. Gripping his wrists, pressing them to the plaster, as he fucks into him with hard, deep thrusts. Garrett hisses out when Harry bites him on the neck. His teeth leaving a deep, purple impression without breaking the skin. “Harry,” Garrett breathes, pressing back into Harry’s thrusts. 

He’s not paying much mind; Harry’s only concern is getting off. It’s been a long, long time since he’s got to fuck another bloke from behind. Usually he has them blow him off in the bathrooms at pubs and returns the favour or wanks them off before a hasty escape. But he loves to fuck them from the back--with his fingers in their skin, wrapped in their hair, pressing into the back of their neck. 

When his eyes move away from where his hand has wound into Garrett’s hair, to one of the many portraits, he finds Malfoy watching him. A flush high on his youthful cheeks, and Harry’s excitement suddenly grows. They lock eyes while Harry fucks Garrett harder. Pressing close to his sweat slick back as Harry slips against him--trying to get as close to him as physically possible. Malfoy releases a small whimper, and Harry comes at the sound--looking into Malfoy’s flint grey eyes. 

# 

Malfoy never brings it up. Neither does Harry. They just continue on as they had before. With Harry going about his day, and Malfoy trying to have control over what he can. 

It’s routine, until one day when Malfoy asks Harry an unusual question. “When did you know you liked cock, Potter?” 

Harry nearly chokes on his mash, but manages to get his breathing under control after a lengthy coughing fit. Malfoy looks unfazed and sits patiently on the dainty white bed painted in the portrait he’s currently occupying. “I’m sorry,” Harry says--hoping to God he didn’t hear Malfoy correctly. Only Malfoy repeats the question and Harry finds he _did_ hear it right the first time. 

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Harry says, “I...erm...dunno.” He’s not going to admit to Malfoy he started figuring it out when he saw Malfoy in the showers after a match during Third Year. That had been humiliating enough in the privacy of his own mind--accidentally walking into the wrong locker room and going stiff due to the naked presence of his arch-nemesis. 

“Did you always know?” Malfoy inquires, picking at nails as he waits for Harry’s answer. 

“I guess I did,” Harry says--trying to remain vague. 

“I always knew, you know? And...I mean when you see Oliver Wood on a broom, in Quidditch leathers and think about how his cock would feel up your arse--it becomes pretty apparent that you might like blokes,” Malfoy admits with a bored drawl.

“You wanted a Gryffindor’s cock up your arse?” Harry teases. 

Malfoy rolls his eyes, “Hate-sex, Potter. Ever heard of it? I hear it’s amazing.” 

“It is,” Harry confirms with a nod, “I’ve had it a few times.” 

“You ever thought about having it with me, Potter?” Malfoy smirks, but there is something fragile in his expression. 

“I have. I had a lot of very demented sex dreams about you while I was hiding in a tent during the war,” Harry decides to share, and to be vulnerable before Malfoy. 

Draco’s expression goes blank, and Harry feels bad for putting the dark shadow of memories around Malfoy’s eyes. 

“Who put you in there, Malfoy?” It’s a question he’s wanted the answer to since the beginning, but he’s only felt comfortable asking now. 

“My father,” Malfoy admits with a casual shrug. “Caught me having one off with this bloke, Marcus--I’m sure you remember him--and told me I would remain in a portrait until I cured myself of my vile ways.” 

“You never thought to lie and tell him you were better?” 

“Funny how my father isn’t a moron, Potter. He’s got me cursed to only tell the truth. So he came to me every day--for I don’t know how many days...I lost track after four hundred...and asked me _have you cured yourself yet_. And every damned day I’d be compelled to tell him no I had not yet learned to be sexually attracted to women.” A bitter sigh leaves his soft pink mouth, “Then, one day, he quit coming.” 

Harry read somewhere a few years back that Lucius had died. Took a poison to end it all, or so the rumours say, and now his manor sits empty--going to ruin--since the world cannot locate Draco Malfoy. “Do you wonder what happened to your father?” 

“I’m not an idiot,” Draco snorts, “I’m sure he’s dead. Old bastard was always dramatic. Was it a poison?” 

“So I’ve heard,” Harry admits, and Malfoy still manages a small glimmer of sorrow at the news. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“I just wish he’d have let me out before then,” Malfoy replies with a quiet voice, “I feel as if I’ve missed half of my life. I just want out.” 

# 

So Harry reads, and reads, and reads to Draco--pouring over old books with him to try and find a way to bring Draco back from the depths of the portrait. To return him to the world where he can age again, eat again, feel again. Harry reads and his voice seems to ignite a hope he’s never seen in Malfoy’s eyes before. 

So he reads. Even though he has no hope that they can restore Malfoy to the world.

# 

Harry’s nearly thirty-five, and it’s been a near year since Malfoy woke him in the night with a shrill cry of “Potter”. 

Now Malfoy says, “Potter, what do you want for your birthday?” 

“You, arse up,” Harry mouths off with a snort, before taking a pull of his beer, eyes on the telly. 

“You find a way to get me out of here and I’ll give it to you--gladly,” Malfoy admits. Casual, as if there’s nothing remotely game changing with what he’s said. Harry chokes on his beer, eyes watering when he turns them upon where Malfoy is relaxing on the bed--his eyelids pitched low in a seductive display, and his tongue dancing lazily across his bottom lip. “What do you say, Potter? Want me out of this portrait?” 

Harry just watches him; eyes wide behind his glasses as Malfoy starts removing his robes. He’s the colour of milk, looks soft--like expensive cotton--and Harry’s throat clicks with a dry swallow when Malfoy does a slow turn in the painted room within the large, gilded frame. Malfoy presses his palm to the invisible wall between them and Harry touches the same space. Swearing he can feel a warmth through it as Malfoy releases a breathy sound. “Potter,” he whispers, “I can feel you.” 

Too excited to speak Harry drinks down the sight of Malfoy dancing against the space between them--rubbing himself against where Harry is now pressing his body; trying to feel more of Malfoy’s movements. “I want you in me, Potter,” he confesses. “When I watched you with that man I could tell you were holding back--I want the hurt of your touch; need it,” he whimpers, arching against where Harry’s not quite touching him, “I want you to make me feel alive.” 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes; swallowing hard when he feels the hot flood of Draco’s release against the barrier. 

# 

 

Harry wakes one night from a dream in which he’s fucked Malfoy through his portrait--it’s not an uncommon dream these days. Rather the vision is one that plagues him every time he closes his eyes--and has plagued him ever since that night Malfoy rubbed himself off against the barrier between them. Only in this dream he pulls himself off along with Malfoy, and when they come together he is able to yank him through the portrait. 

The idea is absurd, really, but through the day it filters into Harry’s mind. Pushing to the forefront of his caseload, pestering him when he should pay attention during his meeting with the Minister of Magic, and follows him, insistently, to dinner at the Burrow. 

When he gets home, well past eleven, Malfoy is awake in one of the many large frames in Harry’s sitting room. Lounging naked--as he so often is now, to torment Harry--in a painted plush-looking chair. “Potter,” he purrs, arching, “Were you off fucking someone else?” 

Harry glares and Malfoy looks pleased--as if he’s found the answer he was searching for in Harry’s honest expression. Malfoy has to know that Harry is haunted by him. In dreams. In reality. Malfoy is an affliction Harry cannot escape, cannot cure himself of; Malfoy possesses him in ways other blokes have never managed. He’s nothing special, not really, he’s tall, blond, slim, with sharp angles--there are plenty of men who fit that description in Harry’s world. But there is something about Malfoy. There has _always_ been something about him. It’s in the lazy, graceful way he moves. In the low, calming tone of his voice. The knowing cold grey colour of his eyes. Harry is enraptured; held hostage by a man who is still no more than a boy and trapped in a portrait. 

“Come, Potter, sit and let’s talk of the day,” Malfoy beckons, with a casual curl of his finger. 

Harry knows it is more than the way Malfoy moves, talks, and watches him. His obsession is one that is mirrored in Malfoy. He can feel it when Malfoy follows him all around the house. It is an intimate comfort--like the warmth of a lover--when Malfoy traces patterns against the barrier, as close to Harry as he can manage while he tells Harry secrets he’s never before shared with another. 

“You know; I used to fantasise about marrying you,” Malfoy admits one night, while Harry lies half in sleep from the old fable Malfoy was telling him before this revelation. 

Harry opens his eyes, a momentary shock coming over him as he turns his head toward Malfoy’s small frame on Harry’s bedside cabinet. “Did you?” 

“Mhmm, when I was young. Every little ponce I knew wanted to marry the great Harry Potter.” Malfoy says in a light way with a wide smile, “And then I met you.” 

“Disappointing?”

“At eleven? Very,” Malfoy chuckles. Then his eyes roam Harry, and Harry can feel the stare--like a physical caress. “Now I find you less disappointing, Potter.” 

“Still want to marry me?” Harry teases. 

“Yes,” Malfoy admits with a chuckle. 

The silence grows companionable, as it often does in the late evenings between them, and eventually Harry says, “Do you think if we fucked against your frame I could pull you out?” 

“What do you mean?” Malfoy’s teasing voice is all serious now. 

“I mean I had a dream where I fucked against your frame and when we came I was able to pull you out.” Once upon a time he’d have been horrified to give Malfoy any sort of ammunition against him; now Harry finds comfort in the honesty he has with Malfoy. 

“Maybe--seems very odd, but I’m not opposed to trying.” Malfoy says, “Maybe force of will can make it happen.” 

#

They decide on the big framed portrait in the sitting room. Harry stands there awkwardly watching as Malfoy brings the plush chair closer to the frame, bending over the seat of it as he puts his bare arse in the air--right up against the barrier. 

Harry swallows, Malfoy’s arse hole is pale and soft looking--it twitches beneath Harry’s gaze, showing him how eager Malfoy is for his touch and Harry’s hard in his trousers in an instant. “Potter,” Malfoy’s voice is pitched low, needy. “I want you to eat me.” 

Harry groans. Rubbing at his own cock as he moves to kiss at the warm space where Malfoy’s arse is painted before him. He imagines the taste of Malfoy as he swirls his tongue against the skin of Malfoy’s rim. Malfoy drawing in a shuddering breath, “Potter,” and Harry swears he can feel Malfoy buck against his mouth. “Potter, I feel you...God, yes, I feel you.” 

“Mhmm,” Harry hums against the still flat parts of Malfoy, “You taste delicious.” Harry imagines he does, he can recall Malfoy’s scent like a sweet fruit, and can taste that scent along with the salt of warm skin. He presses his tongue hard, into where Malfoy’s hole would be if it were in front of him and licks him out as he would if Malfoy were sitting on Harry’s face. “I’m going to make you so wet for me,” he growls. Palming at where he sees Malfoy’s bollocks before moving his hands to try and leave bruises in the globes of Malfoy’s arse. 

“Finger me, Potter,” Malfoy commands; his voice a deep growl, and Harry hisses against Malfoy in response as he moves to do as told. First he begins by just touching, but when he starts using his mouth again Harry imagines sinking his finger into Malfoy. Then he feels it--the tight damp heat of Malfoy around him and it startles Harry enough to open his eyes. Malfoy is looking over his shoulder at Harry, eyes hooded, as he says, “Oh fuck, yes--finally, Potter! Don’t stop!” 

“I want to fuck you,” Harry husks, and Malfoy presses his arse against the frame. “I want to fuck you over this sofa,” Harry adds when he sees Malfoy’s pale white skin start to move through the barrier, “God, Malfoy.” Harry’s hands are all over the flesh he’s presented. It’s warm and silken to the touch--real skin, with real scents that Harry breathes deeply as he kisses against all that Malfoy gives him. 

“Get me out of here, Potter and I’ll ride you better than a fucking Quidditch player.” 

“Fuck,” Harry swears as he starts pulling Malfoy out touching every part of his skin as it is freed from its prison. 

When Malfoy stands before Harry--tall as Harry remembers, and just as beautiful--Malfoy has tears rolling down his cheeks. “I can...” he swallows, crouching over Harry, running his own long fingers over all of Harry he can reach. “You’re real.” He whispers, reverent, “God.” Then he’s kissing Harry with tongue and teeth. Captivating him as he tries to climb in Harry’s mouth. 

There’s a small jar of slick Harry uses for when he wanked off along with Malfoy’s portrait antics and Malfoy snatches it up as soon as he spots it. His hand dripping with the stuff before he covers Harry’s cock and pumps it with an almost violent grasp. Harry groans into the touch. 

He watches, eyelids heavy as Malfoy turns around--presenting his backside to Harry--and sits on Harry’s cock. Fucking up and down on his prick with a brutal pace. 

“Malfoy,” Harry shouts a half warning for him to be careful buried in the tone, but Malfoy doesn’t care. 

He just fucks Harry harder while Harry grips his hips tight and bites his lip as he watches his cock disappear within Malfoy--pale rim stretching around his girth. 

Harry’s name becomes a chant as Malfoy builds up speed and loses finesse. Stilling as he spills across the tops of Harry’s thighs, and Harry comes in Malfoy’s body--tensing as Malfoy’s arsehole grips around him, welcoming the spill of Harry’s seed. 

Harry passes out there, in the floor, with his cock still buried in Malfoy’s welcoming body. 

#

Waking to a warm weight over him and a half hard cock against his hip. 

“Fuck,” Harry groans--opening his eyes when he feels long, skilled fingers on his cock. He glares at Malfoy, “You nearly killed me and you want to go again?” 

“Potter, I’ve been without sex for fifteen years. I am parched for cock, I need it like water.” 

“I’m old, Malfoy, I don’t get it back up as quickly as you do.” 

“That’s why you need a spry young thing like me, Potter--a naked willing body who will let you fuck him through the night, every night.” Harry’s cock twitches at the image. “Com’on, Potter, I know you’re thirsty too.” 

He has a million thoughts rushing through his mind--thoughts about their age gap, thoughts about their war histories, thoughts about the fact the Ministry is still looking for Malfoy--but they leave him when Draco puts his mouth on Harry’s. Everything flees Harry when Malfoy scratches his skin--Harry’s sole purpose now is their shared pleasure. 

Reality can wait; it can ruin him another day.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, please leave kudos and a comment for the author!
> 
> You can leave comments below or on [Livejournal](http://bottom-draco.livejournal.com/1475372.html#comments).


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